


Guilt

by Anorkie



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Smoking, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2101884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorkie/pseuds/Anorkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your mouth curves into a smile and you’re having a hard time understanding why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilt

You are malicious intentions wrapped into strips of flesh. You are bloated pupils hidden under heavy eyelids. You are the burn lingering in your throat as your lips ease up on a joint. 

Smoke rolls out of your mouth in loose swirls as you lull your head back. Afternoon light leaks through the cracks in the blinds, staining the room a pale orange. Traffic buzzes outside the window and someone is talking too loud a few doors down. You flick the blunt across the room, half-heartedly aiming for the trashcan, which you miss. Your mouth curves into a smile and you’re having a hard time understanding why.

You are an accident waiting to happen the unfortunate moment you gain consciousness every afternoon. Every day is a rerun of the last. Life is a shitty game you keep on playing. In the end, no one wins. It’s a blatant fact. Acceptance is bliss.

You untangle your legs from the bed sheets and stand up to unceremoniously crack your back. Next are your fingers, which sickly pop under the pressure applied to them. You grab a shirt off the ground – not sure if it belongs to you or your roommate, since the two of you are swapping clothes all the time – and pull it over your head. You have a bad habit of sleeping with jeans on; you don’t bother to get a fresh pair.

There are no obligations for you to fulfill. You don’t have to rush to be somewhere, or to meet someone. The world is a living, breathing thing filled with busy people who treat time like a god. You find such calamity in acknowledging that you do not owe the world anything. The universe has absolutely jack shit on you. 

The contents of the refrigerator consist of a jar of jam, soda, eggs, and some leftover pizza. You grab a slice of pizza and eat it cold as you wander to the window. The clock on the oven has been dead for a while, but by the sky and the flow of people on the sidewalk, it can’t be passed three. You’re brushing any crumbs off your shirt as you set your guitar in its case. You swing it over your shoulder and head out the door.

You walk downtown to find somewhere solitary to play. The train station is an option, but sometimes it can get so crowded there that no one is willing to listen. You settle at the street corner right across from the bar. You have only been there once; you ordered the cheapest drink. A gentleman came up to you, offering to buy you something fancier, but you kindly declined with a smile even after he insisted. You hate how you attract people like that.

You must play for over an hour. A few people pause for the briefest moment to toss something in the open case lying by your feet. You count a total of $14.11 as you pack up to leave. You would have made a lot more at the train station, but you’re finding it hard for yourself to care much. You decide to keep half and give the other half to your roommate. As much as he doesn’t look it, he is very responsible and the security of having money to pay for rent calms him.

The next several hours are spent aimlessly walking through the city. The park is mostly vacant after dark and you take the opportunity to snooze on a bench, overlooked by a dim streetlamp. You pass a shop giving out free samples of something and gladly take one. You have no idea what you just put in your mouth, but it tastes good and that’s all that seems to matter. 

Exhaustion finally seeps into your legs when you walk up to a familiar house. Despite the poor lighting on this side of the block, you have been here enough times to know this is the correct address. You politely knock on the door, staring at the red painted wood in front of you in the meantime. Only a few moments pass before the door is opened by a pair of small hands. She barely opens it halfway. Most of her features are blocked off, but you can make out her jarring eyes. The look she gives you is discreet; she is only able to hold eye contact for a moment before looking away.

“Why are you here?” she says with a desperate edge caught in her voice. She’s all edges.

“I wanted to see you.”

She considers you for a moment, eyeing you up and down at the doorway until her eyes meet yours once again. You grin at her and instantly see the effect as a shudder runs through her body. She tenses.

“Well, you saw me,” she says. 

She means to slam the door on you. She nearly does, but you manage to catch your foot against the frame. This confuses her and she pushes the door – the pressure against your foot is minor – until she realizes what you’ve done. You see the sting of anger and panic in her face before you force the door open against her resistance. You have got her pinned by the shoulders against a wall, looming over her like a shadow, by the time she’s thought of anything to say.

“What if my neighbors saw that?”

“No one saw nothing,” you say with easy confidence. “Folks have this nasty tendency of not caring about each other. If they don’t gotta involve themselves, they don’t. Haven’t you realized that?”

“I suppose,” she says, just for the sake of saying something.

She gets feisty real quick. She tries to pry your hands from her shoulders, becoming more annoyed each time she is unable to. You hold her there for a while just to watch her squirm. When you finally let go she spits in your face and retires to the kitchen.

You wipe the mess away with the back of your hand. Despite your familiarity with it, you decide to tour her home before bugging her again. Her dog is on the couch, eyes squinted with drowsiness. He’s not too old, but old enough. Not much of a guard dog. Maybe you should be grateful for that. You stroke his head several times and he lets out a deep sigh. 

She used to hang pictures around the house, of friends mostly. You always found it odd that a blind girl would be interested in that sort of thing. She’s been taking them down lately. Every time you visit, there seems to be less. There was one picture you were fairly fond of, of her and your roommate. They couldn’t have been any older than thirteen when it was taken. You didn’t much care for her image, but you thought your roommate looked particularly handsome. It always made you nostalgic for a childhood you didn’t even share with them.

She is sitting at the table when you enter the kitchen, legs firmly crossed. Her hands are around a fresh mug of coffee. Watching soft steam envelope her face makes you want to light up again.

You pull out a seat and sit down without invitation, promptly slinging your guitar case over the chair. You expect an annoyed reaction, like a dirty look or flinch of the mouth, but her face remains unchanged. You find subtle amusement in this.

“Coffee?” she offers.

You tell her no thank you. She looks in your direction for a moment. You anticipate the chance of her flinging hot coffee at your face, laughing as you press your hands to your eyes in a moment of blindness. Instead, she brings the mug to her lips, blowing a puff of steam in your direction before sipping from its contents. The smell of fresh, grinded coffee beans irritates your nose. You cringe slightly.

“Did you really just come here to stare at me?”

“Maybe,” you say with a grin. “I like looking at you.”

“Bullshit.”

She takes another sip. The sound is as obnoxious as she is. For a moment you believe she is done, but you think too soon as you watch her retrieve the coffee pot to pour another serving. She doesn’t put anything in it. You both sit in silence as she finishes her second cup. She promptly washes the mug out in the sink and carefully places it in the dishwasher, among other things. In fact, she starts loading her entire dishwasher. You don’t know how much time passes before she’s done. You almost expect her to start sweeping the floors.

“You trying to bore me into leaving?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Is it working?”

You close the distance between you and her. You loosely wrap your hands around her waist and press her back into the sharp edge of the counter. She’s looking at you again, the best way her blind eyes know how. The edge of her hipbone tickles your wrists as she attempts to free herself. She’s humble about it this time, keeping squirming to a minimum. Still, you press your body against hers to stifle any movements. 

You feel her entire body go slack. Her head collapses against your chest with a soft thud. This isn’t a defeat, just a breather. You recognize the difference. Gently, you rest your chin on her head. Your hands carefully move to the hem of her pants, fingering between fabric and skin. She doesn’t seem bothered by this. Both hands slide into her underwear and squeeze her ass. She doesn’t seem bothered by this.

She makes no effort to stop you as you pull her pants down to her ankles. She only seems bothered by the fact that you moving forces her to ease her head off your chest. You slip a hand into her underwear again, feeling the wetness you had been expecting. When she groans you grab hold of her chin with your other hand, forcing her to look sightlessly in your direction. You watch her face as you play with her soft bits and get your fingers up inside her. Her hips move with your fingers, trying to figure out the tempo of the sickly soft thrusts. Once she does, she presses against them hard and you mirror the action. Her thighs tremble. A look of shame flashes in her expression. In an instant, she’s desperately trying to ease up your hold on her chin, but you got her head locked in place. You finger fuck her harder, to the point you are completely aware you are hurting her. You watch her face go all kinds of ugly. 

Once you’re satisfied you let go of her chin, now raw with you pressing into it, and feel her face against your shoulder. Your fingers are slick when you bring them back; she does not react to the absence of them. The shoulder of your shirt becomes damp with something warm. You cradle your face into her hair, breathing in a faint scent of cherry, sweat and guilt.

Guilt is a shared emotion. You are the keeper of her mistakes and regret. You are the constant reminder of what a despicable person she believes herself to be. You are the secret to self-loathing beyond recognition. And so is she.

You cannot recall how the two of you ever ended up in such a strange relationship. All you know is that it has something to do with your roommate, Karkat, and fate handled the rest. You do know for sure that this is equally both your faults. It doesn’t matter who started it.

You gather the stupid girl into your arms. This takes her by surprise and she flails her arms until she’s found a part of you she can securely clutch onto. You take her to her bedroom. Tearing her panicked grip from you, you carelessly drop her onto her bed. You take a quick look at her flushed face, her glassy eyes, and you feel like you’re going to be sick. 

No sound escapes her lips when you leave the room. When you take a moment to step into the bathroom and wash your hands, you catch an image of your hardened expression in the mirror. There, behind a mountain of unruly hair, are dark marks under your eyes, rough patches of skin and scars. Beyond all that is the indisputable fact that you are angry. Perhaps not angry enough to trash the entire house – but angry. That in itself is a failure. 

You wipe your hands on your jeans. This bathroom is too clean. She keeps this whole place too clean. You slam the door on the way out and snatch your guitar case as you stomp through the kitchen, bent on leaving as soon as possible. 

“Wait,” you hear her croak from her room as you pass it. You take a step back and peer into the doorway where you see her lying on her bed, on her side. She dips her head a little; you have a feeling she was not expecting you to hear her, or if you did, did not expect you to listen.

“What?” Your voice sounds cruel. She adjusts herself, bringing her knees to her belly. You can’t help but notice the great visual you get of her ass from this angle.

“Stay with me a while?” She sounds so unsure of herself, practically speaking into the pillow cradled against her head. 

You prop your guitar case against the doorway and settle next to her in bed. She hesitates for a moment before pulling herself close to you. Carefully, she places her hands against your chest and buries her face in the crook of your neck. Moments like these you find yourself both confused and enticed by this girl. You wonder what she really wants from you. Her breath is warm against your skin. You wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she bit you for the sole purpose of drawing blood.

Her hands slide against your skin, briefly pausing at your neck, and halt at your face. She presses a thumb to your cheek, experimentally gliding a painted nail along it. She used to have an obsession with painting her nails red. That color has darkened to purple since you started seeing her.

You taste anxiety when she presses her lips against yours. You taste a heavy heart, wandering thoughts and a sting of regret that only you could understand. Gently, you kiss her back. Neither of you interrupt this rare instance of innocence with tongues or teeth. The two of you just kiss in the simplest way possible, and when you are both finished, she settles her head against your chest, breathes in deep.

You consider pinning her arms above her head, pressing her into the mattress and fucking her, but the idea dies quickly. She isn’t in the mood to play along with any of your twisted games – that much you can tell. Of course you could always drive her to that point. You could easily flip her off of the bed; piss her off real good as you roll over each other on the floor, clawing at each other’s faces. It’s not like that hasn’t happened before.

You pet her head as she finally dozes off. When you pull away, you realize she’s been crying again. You leave the house in state of unrest. 

You are the insatiable urge for malice screwed up in your brain. You are the fist you ache to drive through a wall. You are the worst characteristics of human pity.

You stop by a drug store for cigarettes. All the good shit is at home, but you need to smoke something now. Your head might explode otherwise. You cough expectantly when you breathe in the first cluster of nicotine. Your hand shakes when you pull it away. Soft gusts of wind carry the smoke away as it oozes out of your mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't slept and I thought it might be a good idea to publish an unfinished story. It's been rotting for a few months and would continue to do so otherwise.


End file.
